Elizabeth summoned a smile, tilting her chin to expose the line of her throat. “I am not afraid, monsieur. Only shy.”
“Ah! Shy! I do not believe it. But I will teach you to trust me.” His hand, adorned with a ring far too ostentatious for good taste, reached for her arm. The touch was light, almost courteous, but Elizabeth felt his intentions like a chill up her spine.
Now, she told herself. Now.
She closed her eyes, loosening into his grasp, letting her mind relax. Usually, she would fight to suppress the thoughts, the Colonel’s memories that stirred within her. The thoughts pressed—places she had never known were now familiar: names, faces—Caffarelli and Bonnet; Zamora, a desperate retreat as he realised they had been betrayed, that Wellington,the Sepoy General, had sprung a trap. She gasped, a fleeting memory of his forcing himself on a chestnut-haired woman, her face contorted in undisguised torment—it faded rapidly; was gone, but left her shaking.
He drew her closer, emboldened by her apparent compliance. “You are trembling,” he whispered, his breath hot against her cheek, his hands beginning to explore her body.
“It is only my impatience, monsieur,” she said, her voice a mere murmur.
The Colonel stiffened, his hand tightening on her arm. For one dreadful moment, Elizabeth feared her secret had beenbetrayed, for she felt her body stiffen also. But no—he was only conscious of the danger that came with such amusements, the ever-present threat of jealous pimps.
He laughed, the sound as brittle as glass, and bent to kiss her shoulder. His other hand slid to her waist, his grip possessive. That was all the signal she needed.
“Now,” she whispered again, not to the Colonel, but to the shadow that flickered at the tent’s edge.
There was the crack of a rifle, a cry from just beyond the tent.
“Merde!” cried the Colonel, pushing Elizabeth away as a sous-lieutenant rushed into the tent. “A rifle, fired from the bell tower,” he said. “Long distance, perhaps one hundred and fifty toise—three hundred metres—too far for a musket.”
“Merde again! Les Goddams have given the bandoleros rifles! Quickly now, send a troop to the monastery—then burn it to the ground!”
He turned, but a blade had sliced through the canvas; the woman was gone. He would find her, such a beauty! Then take her to Burgos—what a prize, Adeline paled in comparison.
Elizabeth exhaled, her knees trembling.
“Quickly,” El Guapo hissed, holding the slit in the tent wider. “We have little time.”
She gathered her skirts—the ruffles now more hindrance than disguise—and slipped through the taut opening, El Guapo close behind. The air was cold and sharp against her skin, filled with the scent of pine; gunpowder smoke drifted lazily across the encampment. Around them, there was uproar. Elizabeth shuddered, the terror of the day still not done. She glanced at the tower—the partisans had sacrificed the monastery, standing for over six hundred years, solely to assist her escape; she prayed that Donnelly and Simms were well away.
El Guapo spoke quickly to the guard at the gate, nodding towards Elizabeth. The man grinned, and they were through.
“Farewell, señora, I must leave, perhaps to find the Colonel’sfrancescain Burgos.” El Guapo crossed himself. “You are a beautiful woman… if you wish it, we could have great fun together.”
At that moment, Don Mateo approached. He looked at Elizabeth, who nodded. They had succeeded. A quick word, and El Guapo was gone, vanished into the town.
“Come, Señora Isabella, the Colonel is waiting.” Elizabeth followed Don Mateo down a narrow alley; behind, she heard a great cry go up from the townsfolk—the Monasterio de Santa María de Sandoval was burning.
* * *
Chapter 13
Salamanca
Elizabeth stumbled as she picked her way through the chaos, her feet numb and raw. Walking one hundred and twenty miles from León had been a trial. They had marched at the double for five days—six paces at a fast march and six at a jog. Then repeated, again and again and again, until the blessed heat of the day stopped them for a few blissful hours, until the sun waned, the air cooled, and they were running once again. She had lost count of the miles; her boots had surrendered to the stones somewhere after Benavente, and she had bound her feet in strips of linen torn off her petticoat, but even that was scant comfort. Now, the pain had long since gone, her feet calloused, cracked, and stained with dirt. Each evening, she would unbind them, wash them with a little of the harshaguardientethat had been thrust into her hands as they passed through a small village. They lived on food given freely by the poorest of people. Don Mateo’s name was well known; men came to clasp his hand, embrace him in the Spanish style. Colonel Fitzwilliam was regarded with respect, wearing the red-coat and epaulettes of a British officer. Young men would come to gaze in longing at the long barrels of the hard-eyed riflemen. Occasionally, Donnelly would spy a hare in the distance, its ears twitching, four hundred yards—a quarter mile—away. He would send a child to gather the carcass for their family, and then walk on, his rifle already reloaded with powder and shot.
The men stared as Elizabeth passed; some women turned away. She was not blind to it; even exhausted, her cheeks flushed with more than sunburn. The clothing of a Spanish maja—bright skirt, short jacket, black lace mantilla, her long chestnut hair drawn back in a loose chignon—marked her out as foreign, dangerous, and alluring in equal measure.
The sprawling camp shimmered in a haze of dust and heat. A town of canvas and smoke, with every acre of ground pressed into service: lines of white bell tents, picketed horses stamping and swishing their tails, and fires guttering in blackened pits. The air was thick with the sharp tang of sweat, the sourness of unwashed bodies, and the ever-present drift of gunpowder from the range where redcoats drilled ceaselessly.
Elizabeth’s eyes—shadowed by fatigue—flashed defiance at those who dared to call after her. The riflemen, Donnelly and Simms, walked close at her heels, their Baker rifles slung but hands always ready. Don Mateo, tall and gaunt, shot a glare at a group of redcoats too bold in their admiration, and the men melted away with muttered curses.
Colonel Fitzwilliam led the way, his uniform stained and travel-worn, but there was nothing weary in his bearing. He moved through the camp with the natural authority of a man accustomed to command, barking a sharp word at a pair of loitering corporals who blocked the path, pressing forward towards the great tent at the camp’s heart. There, on a rise overlooking the River Tormes, stood the command marquee—larger than any other, its guy ropes staked tight and a sentry at its door, bayonet glinting in the sunlight.
They passed the surgeons’ tent, where the sick and wounded sprawled on makeshift cots—faces grey, limbs swaddled in filthy bandages. A cart rumbled by, axle squealing, loaded with powder barrels and grease-pots for the wheels.
The dust was everywhere—so thick it coated the inside of the mouth, turned sweat to mud on the skin, and set the men coughing as they drilled or rolled barrels or merely sat, staring listlessly at the horizon. It swirled around Elizabeth’s skirts, streaked her legs, and clung to the folds of her mantilla. The flies came with it, drawn by the stench of offal and spilled ale, their wings a constant, maddening drone.
